The Morning After
by illyna
Summary: The morning after the night before for Jack. JC.


_Not mine! An attempt to write something in that pesky second person. Hope you enjoy it!_

The Morning After

You awake to moonlight and the scent of citrus, as if from a trance. The figure nestled close to you in a cocoon of blankets is warm, her breaths puffing soft and even. You feel at ease for the first time in an age. You shift to ease the pins and needles creeping up your leg and she curls instinctively closer. You cradle her, shushing her softly and willing her to stay asleep; she deserves all the peace you can offer. Your eyes drift to a close, dreaming of oranges and far off beaches.

A few hours later you become aware of a movement. She slips from your arms and dons one of your clean dress shirts hanging from the closet door. At your mumbled protests she presses a soft kiss to your forehead. A muted light spills from under the bathroom door, and you struggle to focus your bleary eyes. The bed dips and she returns, cold hands warming against your chest. You thread your fingers loosely into her hair and murmur gentle words to her as she slots against you, the final piece of the puzzle finally realised.

The next thing you know is dazzling morning sun spilling into the room. The clock on the nightstand blinks and beeps unerringly signalling you are late. You are never late- and the realisation shocks you into motion. As you come to life you realise she is missing. All that remains of her is a half drained glass of red wine and a raw ache. The ache makes you smile and you replay the last few hours over and over in your mind. It is unexpectedly beautiful and you wonder why you didn't see it before.

Of course she would be gone, you reason with yourself as you pull on nearby clothing. She is never not logical. She would already be at work, busying herself with the myriad tasks that never fail to materialise each and every day. Calloused hands smooth errant hair, and your reflection in the mirror looks back at you smiling. You almost don't recognise yourself with that alien emotion happiness radiating from you.

When you arrive she is already entangled, microphone on and brow furrowed, barking orders to an unseen agent. Like a shepherd herding her flock, she uses the images on her screen to guide the agents to safety. Her agents, you realise with a start. You try to catch her eye to smile but she is too far gone, too deep in the work to emerge for trivialities.

The day passes, as so many do, in a blur of faces and facts. It is late before you try and find her again. You search her out and find her, buried to the waist in a wall of computers. You stand above her and watch as nimble hands dart in and out, seeking connections only she can discern.

"Hey", you say softly, reaching down and placing a hand gently on her knee.

She jerks, startled, her head making a sickening clang against the metal casing of the server. Fingers fly to her forehead as she stumbles to her feet, and she curses as they come away slick with blood. You reach toward her, and she jerks away, arms crossing tightly around her middle, leaving a bloody imprint on her pale shirt.

It is then that you realise she has been crying, her face flushed and her eyes swollen and puffy. Her eyes won't meet yours, and they dart around incessantly looking for some purchase. You move to touch her cheek but she steps backwards sharply and twists her head so chocolate strands swing across her face, matting with the blood which is trickling down her cheek.

"Don't," she bites out.

You frown at her, not comprehending, and try and reach out to her again but she recoils from your touch. Your hands return to your sides, balled loosely into fists of frustration. You speak gently so not to scare her into retreating further.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

She speaks from behind the veil of hair; "It never happened, okay?"

"What?" Something in the region of your gut begins to tighten. "No…"

Her eyes finally meet yours, and they burn with unshed tears. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want the platitudes."

"Chloe…" You begin but her fingers against your mouth silence you. You breathe in and the coppery scent of her blood is everywhere. You can taste her on your lips, as vital as oxygen.

She takes a shaky breath, and her words tumble over each other to escape. "I know how this conversation goes Jack; I know what you're going to say. If you care for me at all just let it lie."

Her fingers release their hold on you, and before you draw breath to protest she is gone. Coldness seeps up your spine and settles in the hollow of your chest. You are blindsided by this, and you slide to the floor stunned, trying desperately to make some sense of it all. What to do next - how to make her see how wrong she is. How much you need this. Need her. Want her.

The smell of her still lingers on your shirt.


End file.
